


fading.

by magicspills



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, M/M, Sad and Beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicspills/pseuds/magicspills
Summary: baz is a writer for death. simon is dying. when these two strangers cross paths, their worlds collide and their own story unfolds.





	fading.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for letting me participate in this year's first Carry On Big Bang! And thank you for working with me @barmecideblu !

There are two types of people in this world. Those who are alive and those who are not.

The distinction should be easy. Those who are alive breathe and live, while those who are not simply sleep forever under the ground. Those who are alive have a heartbeat, whereas those who are not have none. It really is a simple equation. If you are alive, you have a heartbeat. If you are not, you don’t.

It is a simple, flawed equation.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people walk on Earth’s surface perfectly healthy but without ever feeling truly alive.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people are immortalized long after their passing, their stories never forgotten by those who say their names every day.

It forgets the way thousands of people are dying at the very moment despite having a heartbeat in their chest.

It forgets that life needs death to exist and vice versa.

It forgets the way life is too often intimately intertwined with death.

───

It’s loud.

Too loud. And the sun is bright. Too bright.

It blinds him.

It makes him narrow his eyes until he cannot see anything but a thin line of light coming from his computer screen. His fingers brush the keyboard gently, performing a symphony as they assemble random letters and give them the power to access magical universes. The steady rhythm of the sound made by his actions echoes on the wall of his living room. He writes quickly without the need to glance down, keeping his eyes on the screen as words appear and characters are brought to life.

He barely takes a break to eat and drink, only leaving the comfort of his chair to rush to his bedroom when he cannot wait any longer. He brushes a lock of black hair away from his face whenever one dares to block his view. He glances away one millisecond to note a detail he doesn’t want to forget. He quickly directs his attention to his screen again. 

He takes a pause. Something doesn’t satisfy him. The words are not fluid anymore. They don’t float peacefully on the blank sheet displayed by his screen, guided by the rhythm of the story. They sink. They sink and break, and everything is a disaster. He reads a passage that he believes doesn’t fit in anymore. He reads it a dozen times, with a different voice in his head every time. He selects the sentences and deletes them. The bottom of the page he is working on is empty again and he has no idea how to let his thoughts out. He looks out of the window, his grey eyes piercing through the orange glow of the sunset.

He used to be able to dream despite being wide awake, but recently, the words seem to have disappeared on him. His mind is empty with a void of possibilities. He has run out of things to say, of stories to share, of doors to open. He saves his file and turns off his computer. He walks in the empty room and stares at the walls as if they held the secrets to unlocking more ideas. He finds none.

He falls on the couch and closes his eyes. He isn’t tired, but he wants to sleep. His previous sleepless nights are starting to weight on his mind and he can only blame his creativity for it. His creativity and numerous phone calls from his very insistent friends. He should really stop seeing them. He has spent a tremendous amount of money on food and drinks for the poor college student that he is. His bank account is reaching the level of no return and he would very much like to avoid it.

His phone rings.

He lets it ring a few times before he answers. It must be eight o’clock. Niall always calls at eight o’clock with plans to rule the universe. Baz has learned how to say no, but Niall never skips a day, and the dark haired boy doesn’t ask him to stop calling.

They are best friends. They have been ever since Niall’s rocket accidentally collided into Baz’s plane during kindergarten playtime. They both had tried to get the other to surrender until they had teamed up to take down a boy’s, whose name turned out to be Maverick’s, truck. They have been inseparable ever since.

Baz answers his phone and Niall automatically starts babbling about the important need to get out of his house. The artist stares at his blank canvas as his friend’s voice fills his head with tales of adventures. He knows he won’t be able to paint either. His life has been grey for a while.

He absent-mindedly agrees to join Niall at a bar downtown. He closes the door behind him as he glances one more time at his computer. It doesn’t matter how hard he wills it to, inspiration doesn’t come.

He locks the door and jumps straight into his best friend’s world for the night.

It isn’t loud anymore. Silence rules as the obscurity of the night welcomes him. 

───

It’s quiet.

Too quiet. And the sky is dark. Too dark.

It blinds Simon.

It makes him open his eyes as wide as he possibly can until his pupils adapt to the newfound level of luminosity. His fingers slam on the keyboard violently, repeatedly as he hopelessly tries to make coherent words appear on his screen. He is at war against technology and yet, he seeks to escape his broken reality through a better one made with zeroes and ones. The complete absence of sound coming from his computer tells him what he refuses to accept.

He doesn’t even need to glance down to know that his beloved, devilish cat has, once again, tore his internet cable to death.

He grabs his slice of pizza and swallows half of it as he drowns his frustration with a bottle of water. He endlessly waits for a sign of life to appear. He shakes his head in resignation and doesn’t bother pushing his hair away from his face. He looks away from the black screen and concentrates his attention on his phone. He might not have data, but he can still read whatever story he has saved in the past.

He doesn’t stop once as he dives into the world of the chosen fiction. The words complete each other and every single detail is well thought out. He is surrounded by waves of emotions as the story unravels in his mind, every small piece of the puzzle coming together. He reads the same sentence a hundred times because its beauty cannot be fully grasped in a single try. He selects his favorite sentences and saves them in his soul. He reaches the bottom of the page and quickly slides his finger on his tactile screen to start again with a new sheet.

Not once does his blue eyes dare to look away from a text full of the one subject he knows best: death.

He is wide awake in the middle of the night, but it feels like he is in a trance, dreaming with his eyes open as he absorbs the essence of the ink. His mind is overwhelmed by this unknown author’s universe. He travels through a thousand different realities within a few minutes and his head is heavy with the contents. He thanks the universe that he once saved this particular file. He finishes the story in one night and bounces off his chair to walk around in his apartment as if his energy couldn’t stay in anymore. He loses that energy quickly and needs to steady his breathing more than once.

He falls on the couch and closes his blue eyes. He is exhausted, but he wants to stay awake as long as possible. He has been sleeping too much recently, spending days and nights in the comfort of his bed, and now he has finally found a decent reason to stay awake. Simon is buzzing from the creativity that emanates from his phone. He has not felt this way for a long time, trapping himself within the walls of his little castle. He has enough money to travel the world and discover the wonders of his planet, but he knows better than to spend it on those activities. His bank account needs to remain full should his condition change drastically.

His phone rings.

Simon lets it ring a few times before his caller gives up. It doesn’t matter what time it is, whether it is the middle of the night or not, he never answers. He has learned to completely ignore any sound coming from his mobile device. He knows who is calling.

His best friend. Penelope has been his best friend ever since his mom, Lucy introduced the two of them during a birthday party. They had immediately become close despite their slight age difference. They have been inseparable ever since.

Sinon ignores the beeping signaling he has a voicemail. He knows he has many from Penelope talking, screaming at him from the distance. He stares at the emptiness of his apartment as he imagines what today’s life lesson could be. He knows he won’t be able to listen to Penelope’s voice. He deletes the message only a few seconds after it was left.

He remains in the comfort of his home as he recalls the way bright colors shone through the darkness when the story had pierced through his armor.  
He glances at his dead computer, judging how long it would take to fix it. He doesn’t want to wait.

Simon activates his mobile data and seeks a stranger’s company.

He still believes it is pitch black outside and he doesn’t notice the sun appearing on the horizon as he types a virtual message in a bottle.

***

The message flies through the air- invisible and inaudible. It reaches its destination quietly, without making a sound, without knowing it is about to change someone’s destiny for the better or worse.

It is a wedding invitation, divorces papers, class notes, a love confession, a breaking up farewell. It is the acceptance letter to a prestigious program or a rejection that will affect someone’s motivation more than it should have. It is a single word or a million sentences written carefully. It carries the ideas of one to another, fusing two visions into one, mixing universes together to create a whole new one. It breaks loneliness into pieces, eating it alive, letting it no chance to go on.

Written in the perfect way, it allows thoughts and feelings to be shared without ever opening one’s mouth, but rather one’s soul. It is the end and the beginning. It is the continuation of a relationship or the violent U-turn at the end of a road. It is the glue that holds two people together or an uncovered secret of a terrible betrayal.

It is a letter, a note, a paper airplane born from wires and flashing lights.

It will change your life.

───

Baz is walking.

It is too early in the morning for him to take the bus unless he is ready to wait a long time. He refuses to wait and a mere one hour and a half later, he sees the familiar stairs leading to his apartment.

He unlocks his door and winces at the sound. His head still hurts from the blasting music of the bar and his throat is hoarse from all the screaming he did. His legs hurt from standing up too long and he wishes he could sit on the ground and remain there forever. His feet are killing him. He still takes a well-deserved shower before crashing in his bed. His worries have gone away, washed away by Niall’s vivid enthusiasm.

Baz closes his eyes and dreams.

He dreams his life isn’t as colorless anymore. He dreams he is on the right side of the existence, in the land of the living, fully enjoying it rather than walking by everyone and everything. He dreams he has enough inspiration to write until his fingers cannot stay attached to his hands anymore. He dreams he has enough imagination to make those ideas come to life and take over reality. He dreams he is alive in a way he was a very long time ago.

His mother is there, smiling, laughing, real. She waves at him, begging him to join him. She yells. Baz cannot hear her. She is too far. Baz runs. She walks away. Baz runs faster. She is too far and Baz cannot reach her. Baz flies. Baz reaches her. She smiles. She smells of pine and home. She takes Baz in her arms and ruffled Baz's hair like she did when Baz was younger. She doesn’t just smell like home. She is home.

She opens her mouth to speak but Baz doesn’t hear a word. It doesn’t matter. As long as she is here, it doesn’t matter. She sings silent words and Baz imagines them in his head, remembering her voice. She points towards the distance, the complete void of objects and gestures for Baz to follow. He does. He follows wherever she goes.

And suddenly he is alone.

And suddenly she is nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, Baz jolts awake.

His mother is dead and he is alive.

He misses his dream immediately when he remembers where he is, alone in his bedroom, too old to be picked up by his mother anymore. He lies awake, his eyes fixated on the ceiling which are glued fluorescent stars. They don’t shine anymore. Baz is rarely in his bedroom, preferring the huge window of his living room to surround him when he writes. He hasn’t let them shine for a long time and he doesn’t think he ever will again.

It is almost noon. He brings his attention back to his phone as he quickly goes through his emails and notices one in particular that comes from his blog, indicating he has a new personal message waiting to be read. It concerns an older post, something he had written a few months ago.

He enjoys posting some of his texts to the online community. He gets feedback and adjusts his art consequently if he judges it necessary. He does the same whenever he paints something he is proud of. The critics make him better.

He reads the first line, a lump forming in his throat as he notices the length of the message. It is longer than the many others he had received before. He doesn’t know why he worries about it, but he feels this one, this specific bundle of words appearing out of nowhere, is different from the past ones.

Maybe it is because of its length.

Maybe it is because of its formal style that makes him wonder what this classy human being could ever want from his very normal ordinary self.

“Basilton. I can only hope you will receive this message regarding an older post.”

He is called Basilton, a name he rarely uses in his daily life, on the vast land of the Internet. He is the Commander of Death and his art reflects this side of him. He portrays death in all its forms, through the eyes of many, through a multitude of other colors than simply black. He shares his friend's’ life and death with anecdotes and wise lessons. He illustrates the way death is part of the living world without life ever asking it to leave, the way it rules their universe with subtlety and grace, and the way it is feared by most.

He writes in black and white and paints with the colors of melancholia.

He owns death, even if it always wins in the end. He has accepted it and it shows through every sentence he writes.

“I know I am late to comment on this. I have been without the Internet for a few days. My cat thought my modem’s cable would make a good toy. I fear she found it perfect for her taste as nothing is left but a disaster. Despite the flagrant absence of my dear friend Netflix, insomnia found me and I resorted to reading a story I had saved on my phone. It was yours. I finished it in one night.”

He smirks at the thought of a cat being responsible for the discovery of his story. Out of the many reasons he has heard, this one is by far his favorite one.

“I am writing this message from my phone, using my data, because the thought of not telling you about it made no sense to me. You are gifted.”

Baz smiles a little more as he goes through each sentence, every little detail, every compliment he feels he does not deserve. It feels like he is reading someone’s state of mind and he doesn’t know how to react.

The words soothe his wounded soul and he believes whoever took the time and efforts to praise him in such magnificent way deserves a proper answer. He nervously calls out for his best skills in grammar and vocabulary. He can only hope his knowledge matches the one of this mysterious person. He is convinced it won’t.

He starts to type an answer despite his doubts.

The message was signed “Simon” and Baz writes his first name as well.

Baz thinks Simon’s name sounds perfect.

 

He feels like he is doing something important.

 

He feels important.

 

He realizes it is the first message in months that isn’t tainted with the theme of eternal rest.

 

───

Simon is running.

The wind is blowing in his hair as he tastes the fresh oxygen from the trees around him. The hills are just high enough for him to work his cardio without feeling exhausted. He marvels at the way his muscles contract as he races through the forest. They stretch and ache in the most pleasurable way. He never wants to slow down. He cannot slow down.

He passes by the most perfect sceneries but he never stops. He has no time to stop. Who knows how long it will take before Simon can no longer run until his lungs hurt? He keeps his breath steady as he forces his heart to pump more blood through his limbs. Simon feels invincible, in his own element. He reaches the top of the hill easily and finally allows his body to take a break. His lungs expand as he fills them with as much air as possible.

The view is breathtaking and leaves him gasping for oxygen more than the miles he just ran do. The cliff is high and Simon almost believes that it would be possible for humans to fly if they jumped from this specific place. He stares at the city below, the huge buildings appearing as tall as his thumb. He doesn’t hear the familiar city noises and he is grateful for the silence. It allows him to listen to the way his body reacts to the efforts.

He watches as birds dance in front of him over the emptiness. They own the sky with an ease Simon can only hope for. They live a careless life Simon can only dream of. He stays at the top for a few minutes before he starts heading back. He has no time to waste.

He starts to jog, but something feels wrong as if his legs didn’t obey him anymore. He tries to increase his speed but it slows down instead, until he is walking at a snail’s pace.

He frowns.

He tries to force his body to move faster, to run again just like he was doing a few minutes ago, but it doesn’t listen to him anymore. It isn’t his anymore. He feels weak, tired, exhausted, completely drained of his energy. He can no longer feel the air entering his lungs and he suffocates. He falls to the ground, dirt scratching his knees as he opens his mouth to let the air in.

And suddenly, he is alone.

And suddenly, the trees are nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, his eyes open and he wakes up in his bed, immobilized by his covers.

It feels like an eternity since he has taken a walk in a park and he sadly realizes it is the truth.

Simon curses. He sighs. He resigns and accepts reality. He wishes he could do something other than constantly miss the feeling of running, but he is too aware of the way he has difficulty breathing just by simply walking at a normal pace. Even jogging is not an option for him.

Going outside is a chore now.

He struggles to climb the stairs back to his door whenever he goes out to buy food or supplies. Half of the time, he needs to take a break despite the small number of stairs. He needs to be mindful of the distance he has to walk, calculating how long it would take him and adjusting his speed accordingly. He needs to bring his phone every time, fully charged. He needs cash money in case he has to take a cab. He needs to think of everything. He no longer goes out for fun, he plans every single excursion he does.

He would give anything to be able to go to the park, but the distance is too great and the bus ride is too long for him to risk the journey. He could take a taxi, but why would he? He has accepted his fate. He can’t go to the park as often as he used to. He can’t mourn nature forever so he has moved on.

He reaches for his phone, a rare aspect of his previous life that has remained unchanged. It glows to life as he reads the answer he has gotten in reply to his previous message.

He smiles automatically as he reads the familiar “Dear, Simon” at the top of the page. It is the third message he receives and he doesn’t regret his decision to reach out to this stranger.

He reads the words that slightly make his day better. Their conversation has shifted from the story to themselves. They share little bits of what makes them the people they are and Simon tries to remember all of them.

Simon has a terrible memory and he keeps writing notes on scattered post-its.

He keeps losing the post-its and somehow remembers everything about Baz.

He remembers the content of the first answer, just as formal as his message, but with a thin layer of humor. The second message had been more personalized since the ice was broken. There was no need for extravagant words and impressive vocabulary anymore, and yet Simon had still included a few uncommon words to impress the writer. They had shared random facts about themselves, mixing sarcasm and just enough jokes to test the other’s sense of humor. Soon enough, as it is almost always the case on this platform, time zones and distance had come up.

Simon remembers the moment he had realized Baz lived in the same time zone. He had smiled widely, relieved to know they wouldn’t have to wait hours before getting an answer from one another. He had mentioned it to Baz and had received a hilarious answer about how they probably still lived lightyears away from each other.

Simon had agreed.

Until now.

Baz had directly stated the name of the city he lived it.

Simon now disagrees.

They don’t live millions of miles away from each other. In the grand scale of the universe, they are cosmic neighbors. He is speechless.

He knows what to say before he even types it. The words just flow through his mind like the violent current of a waterfall.

“Baz, I know you said you come from outer space. I believe you. But somehow, your words have reached me across this immense distance and that is an incredible situation. I also believe that the world is small, tiny even. It is impossible to ignore that on the grand scale of the universe, we live only centimeters away, wherever we are on the planet.”

He wonders if he’s taking it a step too far.

He thinks that even if he is, it doesn’t matter.

He has nothing to lose and he wants to test the limits of this insane coincidence.

“There are hundreds of thousands of people currently writing stories. There are thousands of websites made to share those tales with the rest of us. There is an infinity of languages, of genres, of writing styles that I enjoy more than others. A million possibilities could have occurred instead. But out of all of them, because one night my cat murdered my internet connection, because insomnia decided to make me it's puppet, because I had my phone fully charged and next to me, I resorted to reading a story I had saved, and among the many choices I had, it ended up being yours. You, Baz, who lives probably less than twenty miles from me.”

He signed with his full name this time. Simon Snow. He won’t waste the opportunity.

He feels like something important is happening.

He knows something important is happening.

This message brings life to his dull routine.

***

Waiting is annoying.

No one enjoys waiting. In a society where everything is rushed and everyone is forced to do things faster and better than anyone else, waiting is a handicap. The definition of waiting has been manipulated by people to mean that time is being wasted. Productivity rhymes with high speed and quantity rather than meticulous and quality. Effectivity rhymes with how fast one finishes a task.

No one wishes to wait for money to fill their bank account, for popularity to embrace their name, for a victory to be celebrated. Everyone secretly wishes they could snap their fingers and get everything they have ever asked for, from the expensive objects such the latest most performing car, to priceless concepts such as love itself. It is the era of the immediate results.

The world has forgotten that waiting has one important utility. It makes the results even more appreciated, more meaningful, more precious. It makes the goal worth it.

Right now, the wait is endless.

Tell me about you.

They both send this question thinking it is a good one.

They both receive the question and struggle to know what to answer.

They both think this is the worst question humanity has ever come up with.

What can they say to someone they don’t know?

What can they say that is personal, but not too much, that is interesting, funny, unique, but just enough so the other person can relate to it as well? How can they convey just enough of their personality so that the other person stays around to learn more without running away? The balance is hard to find and they can’t choose the right words, the right sentences, the perfect anecdotes. How much is too much? What makes them interesting? What makes them stand out from the crowd of eight billions of people?

Simon wonders if he should tell Baz about how he feels breathless half the time, how he found his story like a wave of fresh air filling his lungs, how he was so exhausted that night and somehow, those words were worse than insomnia, keeping his mind wide awake until the sun rose in the sky.

Baz wonders if he should tell Simon about how he feels lost half the time, how this long message arriving from nowhere was like finally arriving at his final destination after an endless walk, how he was trapped between this reality and the next one and somehow, those words were enough to tie him up steadily to the right one.

They type the same message without ever knowing it. They start with their occupation, their age, where they come from. They start with the most general information they can find about themselves. They don’t bother describing what they look like. In an implicit agreement, they know this will be the last message on this personal blog. The next conversation will occur by text messages.

They enjoy the same things, they speak sarcasm, they share the same sense of humor, they have a similar passion for food, they are both embarrassingly in love with tv shows and more importantly, they both sound like they don’t want this conversation to ever end. Simon mentions his cat and his interests in astrology, history and philosophy. Baz writes about his daily life and his interest in arts, travel and mysteries.

Neither Simon nor Baz share their personal contacts with strangers. It is against what they believe to be safe. They have always been careful, staying anonymous, faceless on the internet. Even after they agree to give away their names, they both know a certain limit has been reached. Who knows who the other person truly is? They have heard so many terrible stories about meeting strangers in real life.

But it is different this time. They are blind and they can’t see the limit anywhere.

They cross the line without ever realizing, their answers merging again as they both sign with their phone numbers.

The wait is endless, but it is worth it.

***

Baz is a survivor.

 

Baz has lived through his boyfriend’s shitty behavior. He cheated on him and became someone he did not recognize before he left Baz without any warning. He had changed Baz's perception of love and relationships, making the part of his heart which once believed in princes and princesses and perfect endings, die. 

He has survived his mother’s death, the hardest thing he has ever done. He still remembers the way his father had whispered the words, his voice trembling and barely audible as his father fought to remain strong in front of his son. It still haunts Baz, but not as much as the way his father transformed into a ghost soon after.

Baz has survived this too, the loss of his father, of the man who used to be so admirable, now reduced to a robotic machine performing surgeries days and nights. The dark haired boy learned how to take care of himself without relying on anyone.

And Dev. Baz has mourned him too, his second childhood best friend, even though he is still alive. He is still gone, part of an internship in another country too far for them to communicate more often than a few messages every month. 

Baz has been through many kind of deaths and perhaps it is why he feels so attracted by this mysterious concept, why he feels the strong need to write and paint about it, to talk about it whenever his friends agree to listen to this somber subject, to dream about it even if he never asks to.

Death is omnipresent in his life. He has become death, in a way.

He has been through so much and yet, nothing prepares him for the tsunami of anxiety that drowns his soul as he walks toward Simon’s house. He is overwhelmed by the thought that maybe accepting Simon’s invitation was a mistake. Maybe Simon just wanted to be polite and Baz, like the silly young man he can be, accepted an offer that wasn’t even one in the first place.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

He is already in front of the door, his heartbeat betraying his controlled apparent demeanor as he rings the doorbell. He thinks, maybe this is a bad idea. He thinks, maybe Baz won’t answer. He thinks, the way they started interacting with one another is too special, too crazy, too impossible for them to let the story go to waste.

The door opens and he forgets he has ever been waiting. In fact, he forgets everything about the perfect speech he initially had in mind. No word, no painting, no sculpture could have ever prepared him to meet the endearing Simon Snow, whose messages have been part of his daily life for many weeks. And while the words came easily when hidden by a screen, being confronted directly by the other boy turns his rhetorical talents to dust.

Simon Snow is real. He isn’t a robot. He isn’t a computer. He isn’t a possible murderer or a total scam. He isn’t a stranger anymore. He is a beautiful boy with eyes that strike Baz like lightning. He welcomes the dark haired boy with a sweet gesture. His mouth is closed and he is breathing hard through his nose as if he had arrived at the door after a light jog. Baz finds him beautiful.

He refuses to be the idiot who stares without saying anything, but Simon still beats him to the first sentence.

“You’re one who translates ordinary ideas to wonders for the soul.”

It is a simple sentence, almost surreal, almost as if Simon wasn’t the one pronouncing it. It feels like Baz has waited so long to hear Simon’s voice that he can’t quite believe it is happening.

Simon’s voice is a song and Baz wants to replay it until he memorizes its every note.

“You’re the one who elevates an ordinary writer to the status of an artist from above.”

Baz’s voice is a movie and Simon wants to watch it until he memorizes its every image.

Simon nods at the answer as if he secretly approves the way Baz answers him. He is sure Baz doesn’t need any approval regardless.

“I am merely stating the facts,” Simon says as he steps aside to invite Baz in.

The place is spotless, like no one has ever lived here before and Baz has no doubt it has been this way for a long time. It feels strange to be here, invited to such a private place. He had expected their first meeting to be somewhere else, outside, in a public place so they wouldn’t feel threatened by the close proximity or awkwardness. But Simon had insisted, luring him with promises of excellent meals and magical desserts. Judging by how great it smells, Baz knows he won’t regret his decision.

Baz barely takes two steps towards the living room before he trips on something and falls to the floor ungraciously. He groans as a hand reaches for his, helping him up. He meets the mischievous expression of Simon and glances at the small figure sitting next to him. A white and light brown cat is purring, proud of its latest victim.

“I’m guessing she’s the one who chewed your modem cable to death?”

“You would be right,” Simon nods.

Baz stands and looks down at the furry demon licking her paws innocently as if she hadn’t almost attempted to indirectly murder him a few seconds ago.

“Thank you for killing your master’s internet,” he smiles brightly, ignoring the pain from his fall.

He glances at Simon and winks playfully. It is a bold move, but nothing he judges past the limits of what is socially acceptable when meeting someone for the first time. Simon remains in control of the tiny storm raging in his brain. Baz is just as fascinating and intriguing as his stories, perhaps even more, and he wants to discover everything.

“Her name is Ebb.”

Baz looks up and down the small feline silhouette, trying to figure out how the name came to be. He finds no reason and Simon answers before the question is even asked.

They don't need words to communicate with each other and they are only starting to find out just how true this statement is.

“My best friend named her when I got her six years ago. She would sleep all day on most of the pieces of furniture, prevent me from doing my work and wait for me to leave the house so she could destroy everything. She would play the victim and then wait for to be forgiven.”

Baz smirks at the thought of Simon being dominated by a poor cat.

“She is not a poor cat,” Simon warns, reading Baz’s thoughts for the second time in a row. “She once slept on me and almost suffocated me until the point of no return.”

Baz laughs at the joke and Simon does too, as if it was the only thing they could ever do.

Simon almost forgets how truly close to death he had been.

“She’s not that useless, now, is she?”

“Maybe not,” Simon agrees. “But only maybe.”

Baz nods. He wants to prove Simon wrong.

They take a seat on the small balcony in the backyard and a small wind caresses their faces. Simon’s house has the perfect view of the busy streets. He can see everything that is going on and he loves it. It feels like he guards this place despite never being directly involved, like he will be the first one to know if something goes wrong.

Two glasses are already waiting for them and Baz swallows his nervousness away. The cold drink washes his doubts away as he wonders if he can find a subject worth talking about.

He remembers the little pieces of information he has given Simon and recalls the reaction they had gotten. He knows Simon shares the same passion for food and words, raging controversial debates and light comedy shows, but he would like to learn more. His artistic side wishes to know exactly what colors he would have to use if he ever had to paint him, what metaphor to write if he ever had to describe him, what tools to choose if he ever had to sculpt him.

He wants to know what makes Simon immortal in someone’s memory.

He wonders if Simon has been touched by death yet, or if he has been spared from this destiny for now.

Simon look at Baz the same way.

As if they both are scared of what to say, what to ask, what to know.

As if they are both painfully aware of the amount of secrets they can learn about one another, while knowing too well that some secrets are better to remain buried.

Simon is calm. He controls his body but he cannot do the same with his mind. He seeks the perfect question to ask a brilliant mind like Baz’s, never realizing that the dark haired man is simply content to be sitting right next to him. He searches for the greatest question and this time, it is Baz who is faster to speak.

Baz has asked his brain for an original question, one that is not necessarily common, one that is different front all the boring ones people usually ask. He wants a question to portray his interest in knowing Simon without sounding like they are having a date.

“If you had thirty seconds to make an impression on someone, what would you say?”

It is an innocent question in Baz’s mind, but the moment the words are out to be heard, the artist realizes how loaded his sentence actually is. It is meant as “in general, what would you say about yourself”, but it sounds a bit too close to saying directly to Simon : “Impress me.” It sounds a bit too close to saying “make an impression on me.”

Baz shrugs mentally. As if Simon ever needed to impress him more than he already did. He should be the one trying to impress him. It would probably take a lifetime, but Baz finds the idea of spending that much time around Simon quite appealing.

Simon frowns as he thinks of a response. He wants his answer to be personalized. He wants his answer to fit the person Baz is and everything they have exchanged so far. He wants to make this man care and he has no idea where this almost primal need comes from.

He builds a perfect answer to this question because something within him is screaming that he truly wants to impress Baz. He thinks of Baz as an artist, a poet, a painter, a musician, a prodigy with words, and he wonders what he could ever say that would be enough to impress him.

He is so busy trying to find the right answer that he doesn’t notice Baz is already hypnotized by his simple presence.

“I can be the words you need, the prose you look for, the colors you seek when it is dark outside. I will be the pen for you to write with, the parchment for you to ensure that your phrases remain out of time’s reach, the paint for you to use when the world becomes nothing but a vast blank canvas.”

The silence is not enough to hide Baz’s pounding heart. It threatens to beat out of his chest and he fights to keep it inside, to keep his appearance calm and in control. He manages to do it, barely. He cannot hide the pink color from decorating his pale cheeks.

Simon refuses to look his way. He hopes he didn’t say too much. He fears looking at Baz will confirm his thoughts, but when he glances up after many seconds, he is welcomed by two sparkling grey eyes.

“That is beautiful.”

Simon thinks Baz is a fool if he thinks his words were beautiful. He thinks Baz is magnificent. He thinks Baz’s work is sensational. He thinks that whatever Baz decides to say to make an impression, it isn’t needed. Baz has already left an astounding one on her.

“You’re beautiful,” he lets out and Baz’s eyes shine with the stars of the entire universe.

He waits for Baz to speak his mind.

And when the artist does, it isn’t to give Simon his answer to the same question. It is to ask another one.

“Do you really like the way I write?”

The tone is hesitant, insecure as if believing that Simon could ever admire him is an impossible task. Baz has always been terribly hard on himself.

Simon thinks it is a tragedy, the way Baz sounds incredibly vulnerable when he has so much to offer and receive. He wishes Baz’s confidence didn’t hang only by a thread. He wants to give Baz an endless speech about the beauty behind his stories, but he can only resume his thoughts to a small sentence.

“You’re special.”

The words have nothing magical, but the tone, heartfelt and impossibly delicate, makes Baz believe in Simon more than anyone else.

Baz suddenly believes he is a unique kind of special because Simon says he is.

Without hesitating, Baz speaks his mind, gives his own answer to Simon. The words flow in his soul as if they had been waiting to be pronounced since he was born. It feels as if he is singing a song he spent hours memorizing. It is far from the general answer he initially thought he would give. It is meant to make an impression on Simon and no one else.

“I know enough about you to write a single sentence. I want to discover enough to write a novel. And then, I want to learn enough so that I can rewrite history itself to show the world what a miracle it is that you exist. But I don’t want you to be an open book. I want to observe, to explore. I want to take as much time as possible. I may be special, but you must be extraordinary.”

None of the rest matters.

Baz waits for an answer that he isn’t sure he wants to hear.

Simon waits for the right words to come back to him.

They both think they’ve been waiting a lot more since they started talking to each other.

“Did you prepare that answer before asking me the question?” Simon narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Baz smirks and shakes his head shakes his head sideways. He tries not to show how proud he is of his answer and fails.

“Your talent with words knows no limits,” Simon whispers.

Baz believes it is simply because Simon portrays the best inspiration he has had in a long time.

Their conversation takes a new path, a different one.

They interact in a way they haven’t been while chatting together. There are hints to dozens of possibilities, in the way they speak, the way they act, the way they simply look at the other. They ask questions they wouldn’t have asked in other circumstances and they play with the answers to make it more personal than they should.

It is a cat and mouse game and they have no idea which role they play, exchanging the masks every few minutes.

One second, Baz tries to subtly ask Simon on a date. The next one, Baz mentions his ideal day and all Simon wants is to make it happen, and the dark haired man realizes a bit too late that he probably won’t be the one organizing their first official date.

One minute, Simon wishes to know Baz’s biggest dream, and the next one,  
he is the one babbling about his false ambitions, forgetting about the many obstacles in his way.

He remembers reality a bit too late, but he keeps his cheerful tone because Baz is looking at him like the word “impossible” doesn’t exist anymore.

Baz shares his goals regarding his arts, his life in general. He speaks as if everything will come true and he even starts to believe in his own words. Simon seems to believe in miracles and Baz suddenly does too.

Many times, they laugh too hard and too long, and Simon finds himself having trouble regaining his normal breathing.

Baz never asks questions and simply waits for the worst to pass.

One moment later, and two bites into the main course, Baz asks what Simon would cook if he had to impress someone with his skills. Simon makes the situation slightly backfires by asking Baz what his favorite meal is instead of answering directly to the question.

They find themselves sharing even more in common and when they reach a disagreement, they both yearn to know about the other’s perception.

Baz loses the game and Simon gloats at the way they get along in perfect harmony despite the fun competition.

They lose track of time, sharing silly anecdotes and brushing heavy subjects. They flirt and it is undeniable that they both encourage the other to do so. They talk about perfect scenarios and pretend they won’t memorize it for future references. They mention their favorite songs and movies, books and hobbies, colors and meals, and they both secretly keep the information safe in the corner of their mind. They share stories about their lives and Simon finds Baz even more charming than before, and Baz finds Simon magnetizing.

Despite the few differences between them, they feel at ease.

Despite it being their first meeting, they feel as if they are old friends reacquainting.

As the evening comes to an end, Baz asks Simon to offer him a secret.

He asks for something that not many people know, something precious, something raw and real and perhaps even ugly. Something that matters. Something terrible so they can get past it and focus on the more positive aspects afterwards.

He isn’t sure if it is a good idea, but he asks anyway because he is convinced nothing can ruin this day, not even the most terrible secrets. And he would rather know about those sooner than later, before he risks being hurt by the truth.

Simon requires for one first and Baz gives in because he feels that refusing something Simon asks would be considered a crime.

“My mother died five years ago and it feels like it happened yesterday.”

Baz’s voice doesn’t waver anymore when he says it. He talks about it casually, but Simon sees right through him. He notices the little boy who misses his mother more than anything and anyone. He also sees the boy who has learned to live without her.

He wants to gift Baz with a secret too, but he is afraid its weight will shatter their amazing meeting. He tries to find a revelation other than the obvious one, but none comes to his mind.

He remembers the night he spent awake, reading Baz’s masterpiece, the subject of death being displayed in a thousand different ways. He hopes Baz will be able to see past the words, to believe in some sort of sick joke. Baz’s arts are all about death, but it doesn’t mean Simon is ready to become part of the exhibit. Still, he takes the plunge.

Because if Baz would rather not be part of it, Simon wishes to know now and not when his heart is at stake.

“I’m dying.”

He doesn’t add details. He waits for Baz to make a decision. His voice doesn’t tremble anymore when he says it. He reveals his raw truth like one would name its favorite song, without giving it too much importance, but Baz sees right through him. And suddenly, flashes of Simon taking long and deep breaths, of Simon struggling to breathe correctly, pass through his mind heavy with meaning.

Simon doesn’t add details and Baz doesn’t ask for more.

Baz isn’t sure if he wants to know more today, but his admiration for Simon only reaches higher levels. Maybe he should be scared of the implications of this small sentence, but he isn’t. He owns death. It doesn’t scare him.

“I will call you,” Baz promises as he leaves.

Simon breathes a little easier.

Simon is a survivor.

He has lived through his first love departing this world.

 

Agatha was full of hope and life, and Simon sometimes dreams that she has never left the land of living. They had only been children when they first met, but the connection has been instantaneous. Their relationship had bloomed from shy friends to passionate lovers within months and Simon had thought that despite his young age, his soul had been born to fall in love with Agatha. All it took was three seconds to shatter this utopia in millions of pieces, one fateful night during which Agatha and her family were hit by a drunk driver.

Simon survived the loss of his first love, but it was only the beginning of his misery.

Simon never bothered to think about his sexuality. Why waste time thinking about who he will end up with when he can live in the present and just love who he chooses to love. Who he chooses to spend his time with. Why waste any time hovering?

Simon had survived the crisis following his parents’ separation. That time, he knew not to be surprised when all hell broke loose. He knew even the best situations could reach their end. He knew what to expect. He cried at the funeral but never again until the most recent blow.

The diagnosis hit him from all sides. The prognosis burnt his down to ashes. The treatment weakened him and the side effects were nearly enough to obliterate his motivation to live. And still, by some kind of miracle, he has found a way to keep walking, to keep his head up, to let the air fill his wounded lungs in adversity.

He has accepted the fact that he would die earlier than the average person did. He has prepared herself.

He will not fall in war without fighting with every ounce of energy he can extract from his body, but when the time comes, he will be ready.

He thinks he already is.

He doesn’t realize he is not.

He closes the heavy door behind Baz, his breath already short from the effort it takes.

He feels that the artist walking down the stairs is the same kind of person as him: a survivor.

Baz and Simon have been surviving for so long and the same message of respect is shared as they lock eyes one last time through the window. But it doesn’t matter what monsters they defeated, what wars they dominated, what territories they conquered.

They have been defeated by the simple way their eyes met and refused to ever look away. It is their first meeting only and yet, there is one thing they are sure of.

Baz believes he could fall in love with Simon.

 

And Simon believes he could fall in love with Baz.

***

They don’t see each other a lot, but Baz doesn’t break his promise. He finds Simon too interesting to fear whatever truth hides behind his previous words.

He calls Simon as soon as he gets home because he doesn’t believe in the “three days rule.” He thinks it is a waste of time to force himself to not contact someone he likes because expectations tell him to. He wants to hear Simon’s voice.

It takes two months before they see each other again, still at Simon’s place per his request. The months that never end, they call them. Sixty-two days during which they kept thinking about each other without even being aware of it.

It shows in the way Simon finds himself cooking Baz’s favorite meal twice, and in the way the dark haired male realizes too late that he has been painting all month with the bronze haired boy’s favorite song on repeat. It shows in the way Simon watches Baz’s favorite shows despite not finding them particularly interesting, and In the way the artist sees his new inspiration in every place he goes.

It shows in the way Baz’s dreams about his mother are replaced by vague images of Simon.

It shows in the way Simon’s shortness of breath is more often caused by thinking about Baz than by the sickness betraying his body

Their calls are short, but multiple. They contact each other for no reason at all, to talk about the weather or to share about something from their day. Their conversations during the day are joyful and full of optimism, and Baz believes this is what he wants to do for the rest of his life. Their talks at night are mysterious and glamorous, and Simon feels like he wouldn’t mind living in the darkness for the rest of his days.

They test the limits of how late they can stay up to talk together and often wake up the next day with a dead battery by their side, their phones still pressing against their face.

They always talk too much even when their answers become completely irrelevant. They always try too hard to impress the other, as if they were built this way. They always realize a bit too late that it isn’t necessary.

Simon repeats Baz’s name many times and it makes the raven haired boy chuckle. When Baz asks him about it, the bronze haired boy says it is because he has trouble remembering names and he doesn’t want to make a mistake. 

Simon’s favorite animal is a dragon and Baz’s is a bear.

Simon’s love for food can only be matched by Baz’s lust for drawing.

Simon’s boldness when it comes to feelings complements Baz’s hesitant behavior.

Simon loves running, the forest, the lake, camping. If reincarnation exists, he believes he has lived a thousand lives in the wildness. He believes his spirit will not go through to heaven or hell, but rather to a tree, where he will live for many more centuries.

Baz loves that he is privy to those little facts and tries to ignore the hopeless tone in Simon’s voice as he speaks.

They give away enough information for Baz to write his novel, but he doesn’t mention it. He wants more and he is willing to give just as much.

He finds beauty is everything Simon is, everything he does, everything he isn’t and doesn’t do.

He realizes he can contact Simon anytime of the day and night, and somehow get an answer within minutes. He hopes Simon gets enough rest but he doesn’t dare to ask.

They always get along. They never run out of things to say and when they think they do, one of them finds just the perfect sentence to make the conversation go on and on until one of them gets busy.

Simon is the first one Baz thinks about when he wakes up and the last person on his mind as he struggles to send one last message with his eyes closed.

They always laugh too much and Baz listens to Simon’s shaky breath too many times, wondering but never worrying.

 

He never asks questions and Simon never elaborates.

──

When they meet again, the awkwardness is gone, replaced by the memories of many phone calls since their last face to face conversation, replaced by longing glances and ambiguous touches as they pretend it means nothing.

Baz hasn’t forgotten how beautiful Simon is. He still remains speechless when the door opens and his familiar muse welcomes him. 

Baz knows, the moment he steps in, where the cat will be and how to avoid tripping again.

He trips on her toy instead and stumbles onto Simon.

He loves the way Simon catches him, the warmness from being wrapped in his arms, the faint scent of spices that tells him there is probably an excellent meal waiting for them. He melts into Simon’s sudden embrace because it feels better than he had thought it would. It lasts two seconds and Baz feels like it is too much and not enough at the same time.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he takes a step back, resisting the urge to purposely take a wrong step so he can be close to Simon again.

He is far from sorry. He is the complete opposite of sorry.

The sudden proximity takes Simon by surprise and his blue eyes hardly hide his newfound interest. He pretends everything is fine and leads Baz to the balcony one more time. He is painfully aware of the way Baz’s breath on his skin felt like a burning forest fire.

He wonders how it feels to burn alive as Baz wonders how many times he can pretend to be a tad too clumsy.

“Tell me a story,” Simon asks as they finish their meal after a casual conversation about the daily news.

Baz knows something is different, as if their conversations across the distance had set the tone of their interactions. They leave the lighter subjects for phone calls and text messages and seek the heavy ones when they are together. They both aren’t sure if it is a great way to proceed, but they don’t mention it.

“What kind of story?”

“Why do you write about death?”

Simon has nothing but curiosity in his blue eyes.

“Because it is the most unknown subject we inevitability have to face,” Baz says softly. “We don’t know anything about it, but we are told to accept it and to forgive it. We go through life thinking we are living, but really, we are simply walking toward our final days. We aren’t living fully until we face death. We don’t realize how precious life is until it is threatened directly by death. We must die so we can live. That is the message I am trying to convey.”

Simon wonders if Baz has died.

“You only write about your friends.”

“They inspire me the most.”

“I have read and seen your art. Every piece of them. Your portraits of death are torturously accurate and the words you use are meticulously chosen to shock the majority. Tell me about your stories, about yours, about the different kinds of death you witnessed and the way you found your way back to life. Tell me about why you wrote them the way you did.”

Baz turns his chair so it faces Simon’s directly.

He has so many things he wants to ask but Simon’s gentle expression convinces him to wait a little bit more.

He wonders if they both live a bit too close to death to fully appreciate life.

“Start with Niall,” Simon whispers with a questioning tone.

Baz obeys. He is sure Simon has his stories remembered already.

“The earthquake came out of nowhere. It was the end of a perfect day. We were just walking home from school. The road we were walking on collapsed and Niall indirectly died the moment he got trapped and the paramedics told him he would permanently need a brace to walk. He dreamed of being an astronaut. He mourned his past and his future at the same time. It took a while, but he found his way back. He has always been incredibly independent and he thought losing his leg would make him rely on people too much. He still hates the brace but he qualifies it as the annoying friend he can’t get rid of because he needs it to go through life.”

Baz says the words and Simon absorbs them. The blue eyed boy knows the fear of losing independence too much. He already relies too much on pills and medicine and science to get through his life. He used to climb trees and dream about running through the world without ever slowing down.

Now he is trapped in his town, in his house, in his body.

H wants to ask Baz to be trapped with him, just a moment so he doesn’t accidentally lock himself alone for eternity.

“Tell me about Phillipa.”

“She’s an adventurer. She and Lincoln, her boyfriend, they wanted to surpass themselves. They travelled to the most dangerous places on the planet because adrenaline was the only drug they needed. They were trapped by rebels in a foreign country. Phillipa escaped. Lincoln was abducted and tortured, and when he came back, he was never the same. She experienced death by losing him. He was still alive, but he was so different. He couldn’t change to the person he used to be by himself so she never left his side. They healed. They built themselves back together and Phillipa… she’s stronger now.”

Simon nods. He believes in healing, in supporting each other. He knows he is doing wrong by refusing Penelope’s help, but he wants his best friend to be spared of the pain he is suffering from. The thought of Penelope seeing him at his worst hurts more than the way his chest burns whenever he takes a breath too deep.

He misses his best friend and he is the only one to blame.

“Tell me about Maverick.”

“He got arrested and thrown in jail. He’s stupid but he’s the best brother one can ask for. He hacked important websites and files when he learned Phillipa was in danger. He paid with his freedom and that caused him to somehow die too. Last time I saw him, he said he would never regret doing it because it gave him confirmation that his little sister was doing great. He always does too much for her when she doesn’t need him to help. He’s dumb, but they are family. They can’t survive without each other. When he gets out, Phillipa promised she would kick his ass. I think it’s the only reason she wants him out.”

Simon grins at the thought. He has no idea who these people are, but the way Baz speaks about them, as if they each matter more than his own life, inspires him. They are a family, all of them, whether they share blood or not. He has no doubt that Baz would go through hell for his friends.

He strangely fears Baz would commit suicide for his friends if he felt it was needed. Maybe not the actual jumping off a bridge kind, but a different kind of death. He would sacrifice himself, his soul, his humanity for them.

“Tell me about Jasper.”

This time, Baz’s expression becomes somber.

“Niall, Phillipa and Maverick, they all forgave what happened to them. They all forgave life for putting them through the worst times. Jasper hasn’t yet.”

Baz sighs.

“I’m not sure if he has come back from death yet.”

He pauses. He thinks of the right words. He finds none.

“Her name was Maya. The restaurant she worked at caught on fire and she didn’t make it.”

He pauses again. He thinks of the right words. There is none.

But Simon’s hand quietly slips inside his and the words come back.

The contact shocks him. It is a CPR machine for his inspiration.

“He was with her when it happened. He wanted to surprise her for their anniversary and when he arrived, he just found her body full of blood and burn marks. It has been months but I don’t think he will recover soon. He’s still in shock. He has nightmares every night. When I last saw him, he refused to talk to me or Maverick. He’s in love with her ghost. He can’t let go. I don’t think he ever will and I don’t expect him to. I just don’t know if he will make it out alive.”

Simon remains silent. He knows this situation too well. It had taken him years to stop seeing Agatha everywhere he went. It had taken him years to talk about Agatha without crying himself to sleep.

He hasn’t met Jasper, but he wishes him the best. He knows he still has a long road to travel. He has been there, he has left a part of himself in memory of Agatha, but still, he had managed to walk back to the surface.

He asks himself why it is that he has so much in common with Baz’s friends.

The air is heavy around them and neither of them cares.

Simon believes Baz is stronger than anyone he knows. It makes him more admirable than ever. It makes Baz radiate beauty, the purest version of it, the one that has been worn down by life and its thorns yet still manages to shine brighter every second.

“He will make it,” Simon murmurs. “He will make it and he will realize that love is weakness.”

Baz frowns.

“Love? Weakness?”

The dark haired boy unconsciously squeezes Simon’s hand. If it is weakness, what are they holding hands for, he secretly asks herself.

“It is.”

“So you’re saying he should just stop caring?

“It is a way to see it.”

Baz shrugs. He respects Simon for everything that he is, but he doesn’t agree with this. Love can’t be weakness, not when it is the only thing, the only feeling that triumphs over every disaster, every catastrophe, every phenomenon humanity faces everyday.

“No way. He’s Jasper. He cares. He was born to care, just like me, just like everyone I know. You can’t deny who you are. He’s Jasper…”

Simon nods in agreement. Just because he believes love is weakness doesn’t mean it is easy for him to act according to that belief. He knows because he feels he cares too much about Baz already when he shouldn’t. He notices the little details that make Baz the imperfect perfection that he is and he wishes he didn’t. He longs for Baz’s presence despite being so used to being alone. He already is under Baz’s spell and he cannot escape.

He feels weak and he hopes he isn’t.

He wonders what will happen if he is.

“You speak of death as if it is the start of life in your stories, but you portray it as the end of life in your drawings,” Simon points out.

“We don’t really know what there is after death. I like looking inside subjects no one will ever truly understand. There are no right or wrong answers. There isn’t even truth to the question of death. There is only an endless quest. I enjoy exploring its different sides, but who knows what really happens when we die. It’s probably nothing.”

Simon prays Baz is wrong.

He begs the world to allow him to have something after he is gone because if not, it makes no sense. It would make no sense for him to have to go through life, through joy and sadness, through the little difficulties and little moments of bliss, just to have it taken away and replaced with emptiness at the end of the countdown.

It would make no sense for him to live as if he had everything to lose when in fact he has never had anything at all since the very beginning.

It would make no sense for him to try and race the concept of time itself if his loss was the only possible issue.

It would make no sense for him to question his feelings towards Baz because in the end, would they even matter?

The answer is loud and clear. Yes.

“Tell me about you,” Baz asks.

The silence is louder than ever and Simon breaks it with a cough.

Baz only notices now how often Simon coughs.

He is convinced it is not because of allergies.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you ask me those questions?”

“I want to know about you. I want to know because you look like you are going to explode if you don’t share your stories with the world. And I know writing is different than speaking. I love listening to you because you can’t see yourself, but you have this look in your eyes, like happiness has found its home in this particular shade of grey.”

It is true, but it is also a partial truth.

Simon wants to know about Baz because he feels it is a shame not everyone knows about the artist. He wants the whole world to hear Baz’s stories, to be in awe in front of his art. He wants to know all about Baz so he can share it with other realities when he leaves this one.

He wants to know and never forget. He wants to know why he feels so attracted to someone who is so obsessed with death when he wishes to avoid the subject as much as possible. He’s desperate to understand why he feels like he can tell more to Baz, a man he’s only met, than to Penelope, his best friend of many years whom he trusts with his life. He’s craving for an answer to the simple question : when has Baz become more than just a friend in his eyes?

He wants to know why Baz takes everything he ever thought he knew and destroys it without a second thought.

He wants to know why Baz transforms his logic to irrational thoughts, why he suddenly feels like the time he has left is not enough, why he suddenly realizes that he might not be as ready as he first thought he was, why the answer to all his questions seems to be related to the grey eyed mystery facing him.

He wants to know why he isn’t ready anymore, if he has ever been before or if it was simply an illusion. 

He wants to know why Baz’s hand belongs in his so well and why his lips are inviting his to a lustful meeting whenever they part. He wants to know where this desire to taste Baz’s mouth come from, why the ache in his chest is no longer only related to his dysfunctional body. He had a plan figured out and now he can’t even remember what it started with.

“I want you to realize what everything you just said has in common.”

Baz isn’t sure he knows where the conversation is going anymore.

He wants to go back to the stories before it is too late but he realizes, it already is.

“Death is not the end. It is a step on a continuum.”

Baz looks at him like he knows the answer is incomplete and Simon answers to the unspoken request.

“I have an illness,” Simon admits. “I will die. Not now, but not in the far future either. I have a couple of years. Two, five, eight if I am lucky. I don’t know. I have a time bomb in my lungs and we are unable to tell when it will explode. We simply know it won’t take more than eight years. It sounds long, eight years. But it’s nothing.”

The confession makes Baz feel as if he was the one with a time bomb in his chest, in his heart. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like his heart has stopped beating. He expected something like it, but never IT.

His brain processes the information slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it despite the fact that it is true, that this man in front of him will most likely not reach his thirty-fifth birthday.

Simon will die. Everyone dies, Baz thinks. Everyone hits the end of the road, abruptly and violently or softly and quietly. Everyone ends up in the same situation, no matter what their story is. They don’t know when, but they know they will. But not everyone dies so young. And not people who look like Simon, healthy. And not Simon.

Not Simon.

Please.

But Baz thinks of all the hints he should have paid more attention to and he knows immediately that this isn’t a lie. This isn’t a play they are practicing. This isn’t a stupid test that Simon wants him to pass in order to judge whether he is a good person.

This is true. And just like most truths, it is ugly, disgusting, vile and poisonous.

“I have COPD lung disease.”

COPD.

Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease

Baz has left med school behind, but he still has an excellent memory of what he learned. He remembers exactly why he hated memorizing the longest words. Not only are they uselessly long, they also are the worst.

An complex fatal lung disease that makes breathing hard for its victims almost all day long. People living with this madness often suffer from chest pain, fatigue and benign tumors in their lungs and kidneys. A simple slow walk on a flat floor can be enough to tire them. The cure is inexistent partly due to how uncommon the illness is and how unpredictable the side effects of the potential treatments hit. Judging by how often Simon seems to be out of breath, Baz concludes that he had received the diagnosis a few years ago already.

A few years ago.

Already.

Tick.

Tock.

“I know about it,” Baz says, sparing Simon from having to tell him the details.

And that’s the problem. Baz knows too much about it. He knows about its mortal rate, how treatments can't always help the patients, about its hold on someone’s lungs, about how hopeless its victims feel. He knows about the handicap it truly is to someone’s existence. He sees the list of treatments in his mind, like flashes making their way between what is real and what isn’t. A short list. Too short and often useless. He understands why Simon doesn’t go out. Simon can’t go out. Simon is trapped within his house perimeter.

He wishes he didn’t know.

He is so thankful for his knowledge.

He feels a bit lost. A bit sad. A big angry. And a whole lot of hurt.

“Don’t look at me that way.”

Baz blinks. He hadn’t noticed how lost in his thoughts he was.

“What way?”

“Like it is the end of the world.”

Baz feels the irresistible need to answer that yes, it feels like the end of the world so it might as well be. It is the end of the world because Simon will die and he shouldn’t have to, he shouldn’t be dying. It is the end of the world because Simon has no damn reason to be in this situation. It is the end of the world because finally, finally Baz has met someone he wants to be close to, and he already has to think about a future without that person.

It feels like the end. 

He keeps his thoughts inside because Simon is looking at him like he has no right to fall apart, not now, not ever.

If Baz shows weakness, Simon will crumble down.

But Baz knows he has already shown weakness. He feels it because he still gets goosebumps in his arms from the way his fingers are linked with Simon’s. He feels it because he has memorized every little detail about Simon. He feels it because he knows the difference between before and now.

Before Simon, he was an ordinary person with no inspiration and nothing to offer.

But Simon looks at him like he is someone, like he exists, like he is important.

And Baz is born again in Simon’s eyes.

Baz is being taken away from his colorless existence by Simon.

“Death is not the end,” Simon repeats with a sad smile. “You of all people should know it.”

The artist is excellent at metaphors. He has a collection of dictionaries in his head and an encyclopedia on the art of turning the most terrible disaster into something stunning. He makes analogies to explain the hardest concepts and turns the trickiest grammar rules into children’s game. He makes the colors rain when gray clouds block someone’s view and paints wonders to replace boredom.

He is able to show beauty and wisdom in the subject of death. He is able to reconstruct sorrows into the loudest cheers. He can look into the Grim Reaper’s eyes and convince it that Death isn’t the only possible outcome. He bargains with the afterlife every single day. He argues with the deceased in his dream and ruminates on the concept of mortality even when he isn’t conscious of it.

 

He gives life to the lifeless, hope for the hopeless.

He helps people forgiving the unforgivable and curing the incurable pain of the soul.

He immortalizes mortality itself.

Who will help him now that he needs help himself?

A few days ago, he truly believed he owned death. He doesn’t anymore.

Because if he did own death, he would be able to save Simon from its grasp rather than watch the other man find excuses of all sorts.

Because if he truly controlled such a powerful concept, he probably wouldn’t exist in this reality.

“Death is not-”

“You don’t know that,” Baz whispers, interrupting Simon from saying it once more.

“I believe.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It is.”

Baz wishes he could believe. He wishes believing was as easy as the way Simon seems to move a bit closer to him, trying to soothe the ache in his heart.

“I write about death. You personify it. I don’t like this coincidence.”

His voice is low and broken, shattered and suddenly old. His tone is the one of a fighter who still wants to throw punches but who doesn’t quite know how to start. Just a little over two months ago, he had no idea Simon even existed. Now he can’t imagine a world where Simon doesn’t exist.

“I write about tragedies and I paint about the world’s cataclysms, and I seek adversity everywhere I go because it is what I do best, get inspired by death. And I had lost inspiration just a few days before you contacted me. I found it again the second I started talking to you… I found it because what is best to inspire me than the one person living with Damocles’ sword over his head?”

Baz shakes his head in disbelief.

He doesn’t know what to do with the information. It flies around his head, making his dizzy and sick. It doesn’t want to penetrate his skull. It just keeps gravitating around his like an annoying bug in the middle of the night where all he wants is to sleep forever.

Simon sees the way Baz falls. He wants to avoid the crash.

He wonders who will stop Baz from falling once he is gone. He thinks maybe it isn’t his responsibility at all to think about it. After all, the dark haired boy probably has many people to care for him.

Simon thinks it doesn’t matter. He will stop Baz from crashing to the ground as long as he can. 

“Penelope, my best friend, do you know what she said when I told her?” Sinon’s voice is full of light and acceptance, and Baz wonders how long it took him to reach this point.

Simon’s shoulder lightly pushes against Baz’s. They sit closer than they ever had before and Baz’s head ends up resting on Simon’s shoulder.

It feels good and incredibly wrong at the same time. It feels like heaven because he wouldn’t mind using Simon’s body as his personal pillow for the next decades. It feels horrible because he already knows he won’t be able to.

“She ran through the hospital’s hallway and yelled ‘to war!’ until she was kicked out by security.”

Baz can’t stop his lips from curving up.

“She did it every time I had an appointment. They can’t ban her from a hospital so she only got kicked out every time,” Simon laughs. “She said I would kick this illness’ ass because I was the only Commander here.”

Baz looks at the way Simon smiles, the way he seems incredibly calm about this situation.

He doesn’t fail to notice the way his boy coughs a bit too much once he stops laughing.

“She was there when I lost hope. She kept telling me that I could not give up, that I was at war and that I couldn’t lose or she would lose too, and she hates losing.”

Simon’s smile gets wider and he wonders why he ever thought it would be a good idea to ignore Penelope.

Baz stares in wonder as Simon turns to his with the brightest look in his eyes, the hope and defeat twirling at the same time in his blue eyes. He sees all of Simon’s dreams and all of Simon’s lost hopes. He witnesses Simon’s noble attitude despite the situation, the way he stands tall and strong despite the obvious difficulty to take a normal breath.

Baz thinks nothing, no illness, no situation in this life or the next, will ever be able to steal Simon’s power. 

It is like he is magic and he is full of it.

Baz thinks could beat storms and walk against the strongest winds because he has the soul of a Commander.

Simon is the remedy to the world’s worst evils.

 

Simon is sublime, grandiose, majestic.

Baz knows now why he suddenly felt like his heart had stopped beating.

He is falling in love with Simon.

And without a word, without a grand display, without Baz realizing, Simon is falling in love too.

***

Death is not the end.

Death is not the end of what?

Death is a kind of an ending, whether he wants it or not. It is the end of who he is on Earth, of his life as he knows it. It will change him, internally, physically, spiritually, and he has no idea how. Maybe it is all an awful joke and he will be back or simply waiting for Baz, but maybe not. Maybe he will reincarnate, maybe not. Maybe he will become dust, maybe not.

It used to be simple. One person would die and their body was left to the surface as it was. One man would die and the group would move on, seeking food and safety for the night. One prince would pass and its kingdom would mourn him, bury him, replace him. And somehow, it became more complicated, more important. Somehow, the rituals changed, the feelings mattered more, the concept got heavier, the afterlife became a scary, unknown place.

Somehow, death became insurmountable, unforgettable, unforgivable.

Somewhere along the way, some civilizations decided that death mattered, that it should be celebrated, while others turned to the fear’s side instead. Some people decided to make money out of it. Some people decided to pretend it didn’t exist.

Maybe death is just an idea mankind has created to make sure everyone lives their life fully. Simon thinks this was the worst idea, the one that has failed the most because now, he has so many questions on his mind, so many unanswered interrogations.

Will Baz be fine?

Will Baz survive?

Maybe he won’t even remember Baz once he is gone.

And maybe Baz won’t remember him once he is gone.

And that scares him. That petrifies him.

He cannot die because Baz reminds him so much of what he will leave behind.

For the first time, he isn’t so brave in front of the idea of dying and all he wants is to curl himself in a ball and let the tears fall. He thought he was ready, he really did. And perhaps he is. But things are different. He knows Baz’s stories now. He knows Baz’s life. He has shared a bond with the dark haired boy, something that already cannot be unbroken.

He has feelings now.

Feelings complicate everything.

Simon has been thinking about his core belief since his last meeting with Baz, only a week ago. He has been living with that simple statement in his mind for so long, going through treatments and tests in this mindset, convincing himself that it would all be fine when he is gone. He has managed to rewire his brain into thinking that he would be fine, that he will survive death. He has managed to go on because he was at peace with his situation.

Granted, he is a miserable prisoner of his body, but he still occupies himself. He still tries. He still fights. He still has reasons to not fall into despair.

Baz had burst into his life and made a mess, proudly enjoying it.

Simon doesn’t simply want to fight anymore. He wants to win. To dominate. To kill. And he is painfully aware of how unreasonable his demands are. He questions his every decision ever since the Baz earthquake. He doubts himself, his behavior, his thoughts. He slowly takes the pieces of him apart, one by one, until he is left with a pile he has to build again.

Except he has no plan. He has no idea where which part goes. He has no idea how to build himself in harmony with his illness, with his fate. He feels like an incomplete puzzle despite Baz bringing all the missing pieces.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Baz is bringing too many pieces that don’t fit, that Simon has no idea where to insert. And the boy with bronze colored curls cannot refuse them. He takes them. He takes them all and asks for more pieces and he doesn’t know how to stop. He wants all of them. He needs all of them. He loves all of them. He makes his exist in a world where everyone and everything is ephemeral.

Simon thinks that if he was one of Baz’s stories, his symbolic death wouldn’t be caused by his illness. It would be caused by Baz’s appearance in his life.

Simon is dying in so many different ways that the pressure on his soul is suffocating his more than his lungs struggle to work efficiently. He is dying and he can’t focus on anything else.

He needs to talk. He needs someone by his side. Someone that isn’t Baz, someone he should have never ignored in the first place.

Simon calls Penelope..

Baz is killing him more than his illness does and Simon needs help. Baz cannot be the poison and the antidote at the same time, but Simon’s beating heart tells him otherwise

Simon waits patiently for Penelope’s voice to answer and when he hears it, he feels tears escaping his eyes.

Simon is dying and he wonders if this is what life feels like.

***

Baz is painting.

A small canvas is being splashed with dozens of shades of green as his hands delicately hold the paintbrushes. A song plays as he meticulously chooses the right colors and trace shadows around the main lines. It is Simon’s favorite song. It has been on repeat so many times that Baz is surprised his computer hasn’t been killed by it yet. He knows the lyrics by heart now. They are part of his life, of his soul.

Just like Simon is.

The lines merged together to form Simon’s silhouette standing under the shadow of a lone tree. His features are painted with a pale green, contrasting with the aggressive pine color. He is smiling and his eyes are warm and soft. He is breathing freely the fresh oxygen from the umbrella of leaves that protects him from the sun. He is looking at the ground where a single flower appears. The rest of the canvas is completely white. The passage to one shade of green to the other is natural, as if nature itself has drawn the art. The newest creation holds the source of life in its small size.

It is an emerald paradise. The kind of place Baz knows Simon would be content to belong to.

He is trying to accept the fact that Simon will be gone too soon.

He is trying to accept the fact that death always wins in the end, and that he now has proof of it.

Baz finishes the painting as the silence replaces the familiar melody. A few drops of paint have soiled his white shirt, but he doesn’t care. It is worth it. He would make all his clothes dirty without hesitation if he could just manage to paint the one perfect representation of Simon.

He is trying to remember.

He is trying to remember everything about Simon. His voice, the color of his eyes, the softness of his skin, the wildness of his hair, the irresistible appeal of his lips. The way he subtly narrows his eyes when he hears something he doesn’t agree with. The way he nods instead of talking. The way his voice slightly raises when he wants to defend his point. The way he smiles as if it was unnoticeable when he thinks something is funny.

The way he chases oxygen without ever being able to catch it when they have too much fun, and the way it shatters Baz’s heart a little every time.

The way he flirts with both life and death, without ever settling on one of them.

The way he seems to have chosen Baz instead.

The way he exists within Baz.

He is trying to remember the way Simon looks without having to actively seek a picture.

He realizes he has none. He can only count on his memory and this thought makes his tear up. He wants to cry but he has no energy to let the tears fall. He signs a single ‘B’ at the bottom of the canvas.

He doesn’t know why he feels such despair when he thinks of losing Simon. He blames it on friendship. He blames it on the incontestable fact that he is falling for Simon. He blames it on death, the one subject that has been haunting him since he was born. The main subject of inspiration for most of his work.

Death is his best friend and his worse enemy.

He misses Simon. The drawing can’t replace him. It never will.

Baz glances at the other five paintings lined up against his wall. They all portray Simon in different situations, in a different states of mind. None of them can fill the void left by Simon’s absence. His favorite one is one he imagined and created entirely. Simon is sleeping. His eyes are closed and his face is no longer hurt by the truth. He looks like the definition of peace itself.

Baz sighs. He won’t fight the inevitable but he wishes he could do something to help. He curses the world for allowing someone like Simon to disappear this way, hidden within the shadows of his house, quietly, quickly.

He wants Simon to be remembered and he isn’t sure if he can, with his sole memory, be enough for it to happen. Is his knowledge of Simon enough to cover everything? Is his memory enough to illustrate the incredible wonder that is Simon? He wants to remember Simon, but he is sure his own thoughts cannot even start to grasp how amazing that woman is, how precious he is to this world.

He has so much he wants to remember, so much he wants to share, so much he wants to hold close.

He needs his soul to be enough to hold Simon’s soul as well.

Will his memory be enough once Simon is gone?

He shakes his head hopelessly. He is convinced that the answer is negative. All he is doing right now, painting the diverse faces of the man he has become attracted to, is trying to immortalize him, but without ever succeeding.

He’s falling in love a bit more everyday.

He closes the lights of his studio, exhaustion taking over his body. He needs to sleep a hundred years and wake up when Simon is born again and old enough to be his.

Baz walks to his bedroom and surprisingly notices the light has stayed on. He has lost track of time. He hadn’t expected to paint all night. He turns off the lights and buries his head in his pillow. The position is uncomfortable. It makes his neck hurt and he instantly misses Simon’s shoulder. He forces himself not to cry.

His heart aches and his lungs feel full of air that doesn’t want to escape. His chest is heavy and painful, and it hurts to breathe, and he wonders if this is how Simon feels every second of every day. He feels his body trembling under his blanket and he shivers. He feels cold. He feels warm. He feels lost. He feels sick and he doesn’t know how to get better. His thoughts are forming a storm under his skull and he already fears the killer headache.

He turns around and faces the ceiling.

He is falling deeper than ever.

The glowing stars illuminate his view for the first time in forever.

Baz is living and he wonders if this is what death feels like.

***

Five times.

That’s the amount of times Baz has been at Simon’s place.

He knows everything about it. He knows how to avoid the cat, her toy, her blanket, her bed. He didn’t trip on anything related to her the last time he went there and he was so proud and excited that he ended up colliding with the wall instead.

He doesn’t know yet that Simon will get another cat later and this whole scenario will happen again.

He doesn’t know yet that those two cats will become his and that he will love them just as much as Simon does.

Today, he won’t trip. He won’t even go into Simon’s house. Today is different. He wants to offer Simon something. He waits until the door opens and when it does, when he stops being starstruck by Simon’s glow, he gestures to his car shyly. He doesn’t want to push Simon but he can’t help asking. Simon has mentioned a certain park too many times for Baz to avoid it.

Simon’s eyes cloud with fear the moment he realizes what Baz wants. The simple act of climbing down the stairs will wear him down. He will need to stop at the bottom. He will need to catch his breath for a few minutes before he can walk to Baz’s car. And once in Baz’s car, he will open the door and sit, and ask Baz to wait before they leave. Because being in a car excites him. It has been too long. Every little bump on the road makes his heart race a bit too fast, makes his breath catch in his chest.

Wherever they go, Simon will slow them down by needing to sit every few minutes. Whatever they do, Simon feels like he will ruin it.

But Baz is looking at him like he can wait forever and Simon can’t refuse.

He climbs down the stairs and sits at the bottom as Baz patiently waits. He asks for Baz to wait before driving away and he patiently does as he is told.

Baz holds Simon’s hand as he drives, sensing his increasing heartbeat and slowing down the car when he feels it goes too fast.

Baz doesn’t feel like the wait is endless anymore. Every second spent with Simon next to him is the most precious one.

They arrive at the park and Simon marvels at the sight of his favorite place. It has been so long that the mere sight is enough to make his eyes wet. He isn’t sure if it is the park itself or the fact that Baz remembered, noticed, that makes him want to cry.

It is an ordinary park. A small hill, a small playground, a few trees and a few benches.

It is the most beautiful park to Simon because it is where he has always played when he was younger, when he was healthy enough to run until his legs could no longer support his weight. It is where his best memories are, and Baz’s presence by his side proves it once again.

Baz is gentle. He walks slowly, his arm linked to Simon’s, letting the other man guide their pace. He feels the way the ground isn’t flat under their feet and helps Simon whenever he can. He knows Simon would refuse any help, if he flats out offered.

He also knows how to convince Simon to accept his help. He walks closer, so close that his whole body almost presses against Simon’s. He walks so close that Simon unconsciously leans on him, saving his energy.

They stop as frequently as Simon needs to and Baz doesn’t once complain about it. He has never complained and he never will. He will become a turtle if it makes Simon feel better about himself. He will turn into a snail if it makes Simon laugh.

This time, he has packed a lunch. He owes Simon five meals. He better starts soon if he wants to repay his debt.

They sit at a table and Simon immediately puts his head down, concentrating on his breathing. Baz doesn’t ask questions. He never has and he never will. He knows Simon knows he is here if he needs to talk. He knows Simon will talk to him, just like he knows he can talk to Simon about anything.

They have learned to trust each other over the past months, adopting each other’s vulnerabilities like their own, adding each other forces to their own. Baz notices when Simon needs time. Simon doesn’t feel guilty anymore to ask for it.

Simon looks at Baz with something in his eyes, like he has something to say but he doesn’t know how.

“Thank you,” Simon says as he regains his energy.

Baz nods absently. He looks at Simon as if it is the first time he truly saw him, in the true light of the day, the sun shining over their head and a light wind making a mess of Simon’s hair. He wonders if it is normal for a person to look so incredibly perfect while being so impossibly broken inside. He wants Simon to live.

“I’m not a great cook,” Baz mutters as Simon takes bites of the homemade pizza.

Simon wants to answer that Baz could cook something he loathes and he would still pretend to like it.

“It tastes good, Baz.”

And it isn’t a lie. Simon doesn’t think he will ever need to lie to Baz. He doesn’t want to. And even if he did, Baz knows him oo well already to believe him. Baz knows him too well, but not well enough to rewrite history yet. The dark haired man thinks he won’t ever have to rewrite history because Simon will do it himself. Simon has it in him to rewrite the universe’s laws.

They eat in silence, Simon's taking mental pictures of everything he sees, of every scent that crosses their way, of every sound he hears. He loves the park and he already misses it. He already misses it because he knows he will leave and probably spend a long time away from it again. He misses it because this park is his home. He forgot that he told Baz all about it and the artist has no intention of ever forgetting.

He doesn’t know yet that Baz will bring him to this park as many times as possible.

“Tell me a story?”

It has become a habit. They meet, they talk about nothing and everything, about the way they missed each other without ever saying the direct words, they eat and then, when they are convinced that none of this is a dream, that they truly are together, Simon asks for a story.

It is always the same scenario between them and they never get tired of it. They never ask for something else. They are content with the way they are. They fear that if they ask for something different, Simon’s situation will worsen.

They don’t know yet that they will end up asking for something different and it will come in the form of a ring.

Today is different. Today, Baz isn’t sure what story he wants to tell. Or maybe it is the opposite. Maybe it is that he is so sure of the words he wants to say that they inevitably stay stuck in his throat. He knows it will take a long time before he can get the right sentences out.

But Simon is looking at him like he can wait forever and Baz finds himself speaking before he even has the time to think about how he wants to formulate the tale in his mind.

“I always talk about death,” Baz says thoughtfully.

Simon nods. He doesn’t know what to expect when he asks Baz to share his creativity, but he always retrieves the same theme under the layers of words.

“Does it bother you?”

Simon shakes his head. It doesn’t bother him. It is why he felt connected to Baz in the first place.

“I don’t want to talk about death anymore. This is my final story.”

Simon waits.

The wait is not endless anymore for him either.

“It is the story of an extraordinary man who believed wrongly that he was ordinary, that nothing made him special.”

Baz knows where the story will go before he even finishes his first sentence and Simon hears the echoes of the final words rushing to him.

“It is the story of a man who was dying to live again.”

Baz doesn’t look at Simon as he speaks, as he creates magic with his voice.

“He changed me. He took me, an uninspired aspiring writer, dreamer of lost worlds, and shook me. He took the subject I thought I knew most about and proved me wrong. He is dying and he showed me how to live. He taught me how to live without dying.”

Baz feels Simon’s burning look on him. He forces himself to keep looking at the green horizon. He can hear the children playing in the distance and he longs for his earliest days, when he wasn’t scarred by too many tragedies.

“He is broken, but he fixed everything that was wrong with my perceptions. He is tired, but he kept me up awake all night with his simple existence. He is sick, but he is the remedy to my disease. He can’t breathe properly, but he is the air I needed to survive without even knowing it.”

Baz tries to stop, but he can’t. Even if he tries, he can’t. Even if he wants to, he can’t.

Simon is the inspiration. The perfect inspiration. And he will be gone soon and Baz is fighting to keep that thought out of his mind.

“He has the forest in his eyes and he wears the mountains on his shoulders. He walks as slowly as the gentlest wave reaching the shore and he is as wild as the strongest hurricane. He cannot push a door open without struggling, but he has the power to move people, to disrupt their innate harmony. He is a prisoner of his castle, but he had visited a hundred different lands by closing his eyes and using his imagination. He is a King thinking he is a servant. He is a Commander thinking he is powerless. He is a soft melody and an anarchic riot.”

Baz looks at Simon.

The artist flinches under the intensity of their exchange.

“He is the strongest person I know.”

Baz smiles sadly.

“He doesn’t want to die. He told me once he was ready. And then he told me he wasn’t, that he didn’t want to die.”

Baz smirks.

“He is a fool. He won’t die.”

He winks at Simon playfully, trying to make the atmosphere lighter, but he knows it is just that, a try.

“He won’t die because he will defeat death.”

Baz swallows the pain.

“He will succumb to death, but he will still defeat it.”

Simon knows the words before Baz even says them.

Baz can’t stop.

“He will defeat it because he will remain alive to me. I won’t let him die.”

Baz simply can’t stop.

“He doesn’t know that I need him. I need him more than the words, the prose, the colors. I need more than the pen, the parchment, the paint. I don’t need any materials. I don’t need him to be anything else, anyone other than who he is.”

Baz was wrong. Death doesn’t always win. Death loses too. Even when the battle seems lost in advance, even when the forces of nature are completely unbalanced, even when nothing seems fair anymore, something happens and turns everything upside down.

And Simon was right. Death truly isn’t the end. Death won’t triumph over love. Death won’t win over the raw feelings they are experiencing right now, the fire that is burning inside their soul, the emotions bursting in their chest.

“He is invincible. He is immortal. He made me fall in love with him without even trying.”

Baz cannot stop staring at Simon’s lips.

“He is immortal because as long as I exist, as long as the world exists, I won’t let him story be forgotten.”

Death is not the end of the world as they know it. Love is.

They both are well aware of it.

“I’m sorry,” Simon whispers.

For leaving.

For being sick.

For dying too soon and loving too much.

Even if he can’t control anything at all, Simon feels that he owes Baz something to make it easier.

The words are barely audible, but they tear Baz’s heart. Simon has nothing to apologize for. Death should be the one bowing in front of them, crawling and pleading for their forgiveness and begging for their mercy.

Simon can only hope that Baz will overcome this, that he will move on and forgive their tragic story. That he will forgive life for being so unfair and cruel. That he will forgive death for knocking at their door a bit too soon, always too soon. That he will forgive love for hurting too much. That he will forgive himself for not being able to save him loved one.

Simon wants to give forgiveness to Baz, but he remains quiet. Words are useless if Baz doesn’t believe them.

“Don’t be.”

Baz really wants to kiss Simon.

He doesn’t know yet that he will want to kiss Simon again.

And again.

And again.

And he does it the second he sees Simon’s eyes moving to his lips.

He feels the way Simon struggles to breathe and he isn’t sure if it is related to the intense moment they are having or if it is because of his illness. He stops leaning in because he fears Simon might be having a crisis.

He doesn’t know yet that Simon isn’t having a crisis. He doesn’t know yet that he will have five more years to learn to tell the difference between a crisis and lust.

Simon isn’t having a crisis. Simon is impatient. Simon is frustrated because Baz has stopped moving and their lips aren’t touching yet. It frustrates him as much as his illness’ existence. He uses as much energy as he can to pass his hand behind Baz’s neck and pull the dark haired man closer. Impossibly closer.

And when their lips finally collide, they both somehow die at the same time. They both shiver from the energy that passes through them. They both stop moving in fear that this perfect moment will be interrupted.

It takes one second for them to move again.

Simon presses his lips to Baz’s. They stop dying and they are born again. Baz answers the kiss as softly as he possibly can, not rushing the delicateness of it. He wants to feel everything. He wants to feel every cell of his body being reborn under Simon’s influence. Their breaths mix and the intensity increases exponentially.

Simon wants Baz to understand that he isn’t fragile. He doesn’t need to be spared of the maelstrom of emotions just because he has a hard time breathing. He doesn’t want to miss on anything that involves Baz. Even if it means being on the edge of dying. Even if it means suffocating too many times. Even if it means risking it all, he doesn’t want to miss anything. Baz is worth it.

He opens his mouth just a little and waits for Baz’s reaction. He feels Baz’s body pressing harder on his as the tingles in his body are setting it on fire. He moans when he feels Baz’s tongue brushing against his and the vibrations make the dark haired man seek more, asks for more, begs for more. His hand is tangled in bronze curls hair and he wants it to stay forever there.

They explore each other and their senses are overwhelmed as their neurons desperately try to keep the signals going. But there are too many connections, too many sparks, too many lightning bolts striking them at the same time.

Baz tastes like the life Simon so badly needs. The man increases the pace and their noses bump against one another, making them smile in the kiss.

It is delicate and rough, tender and violent, frail and unbreakable, chaste and passionate.

Baz is in love with Simon.

Simon is in love with Baz.

They have no idea yet that they will fall in love with one another a million times, in a million different ways.

***

Baz is old.

His art gallery has been growing with new paintings every month and the money flows into his bank account. He lives the perfect life of a popular independent artist, sipping coffee to stay awake all night to create, sleeping in most of the time just because he wants to, listening to random artists he discovers online.

He has a boyfriend. He is in love. It is a wild intense love, special even, but fundamentally different from him past feelings. He has accepted he would never feel the same again.

He has focused on drawing for years, perfecting his technique, flying closer to excellence, neglecting the other spheres of the artistic life. He lost himself into the world of colors until ten years ago. Until the nagging feeling in his chest couldn’t be ignored anymore. Until it was eating him alive and he had to do something to stay alive.

He remembers a bit less every year, but he still remembers.

Ten years.

That’s how long it has taken him to secretly write a little paragraph every day, to note the most important aspects of his story, to translate him most terrible thoughts into words. It had taken him months to be able to sit in front of a computer and write without being blinded by tears.

His first draft was thrown away as soon as it had been done. It was terrible. It was nothing like what he wanted to create. It was garbage, an abomination, a travesty. It didn’t convey enough of his feelings. It didn’t do justice to his real life inspiration. It didn’t even come close to him. It was a bunch of words packed together in a failed attempt to represent a part of his past. It had taken him way too long to accept that nothing he could ever write would equal the real person behind the story.

He spent countless nights being tossed between dreams and nightmares, being attacked by memories and voices and touches, being haunted by everything he has spent so long to remember. He finally found peace when he was about to give up, when he woke up and didn’t feel like he was falling apart anymore.

One day, he was able to pronounce Simon’s name again.

One day, he sat in front of his computer and wrote many pages without the need to delete all of them at the end.

One day, he had a relapse and threw his laptop against the wall.

One day, he finished the first chapter.

One day, he wrote the last sentence and finished the whole story.

“May we meet again.”

One day, time had done its job.

One day, Simon’s favorite song didn’t make him break down anymore.

One day, he found out he was in love with someone else.

He had cried. All day. Niall hadn’t been able to stop the tears despite his efforts.

Baz had accepted the fact that moving on did mean forgetting, did not mean he didn’t love his past lover anymore. He had accepted that it was time for him to stop dying, to take a step forward again.

Death is not the end of life, of love.

Love triumphs over death.

Love remains after death. It doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t vanish as if it hadn’t existed. It doesn’t become any less strong. It doesn’t stop feeling good and it doesn’t stop hurting. It doesn’t change in its pure form. It doesn’t become something else. Love lives on, eternally, surviving each and every death one goes through.

Baz has received a package today. A single rectangular package wrapped carefully. The result of ten years of struggle, of war against himself, of ugly crying and false smiles, of drowning his sanity in alcohol when the sun was nowhere to be seen. It is the result of ten years of trying to move on until he had realized he would never be able to move on the way he intended to.

It is the first exemplary of the only book he will ever write. He wants to translate it. He wants everyone to know, everyone to remember.

He will open the book. He will read. He will laugh. He will cry.

He will fall in love again. He will have his heart broken again. 

He will die a little. He will live a little.

He will remember.

The title shocks his soul when he finally discards the paper protecting his last story.

S.A.M.

Simon, A Miracle.


End file.
